The Cleavers: Curiosity Killed
by Manga M
Summary: Magic. Pyromaniacs. Cops. Oh, yes, and drugs.
1. Prologue

"_The Cleavers are lawful, impartial and _incredible_ warriors of justice who _just happen_ to die rather a lot. They do _not_ go around killing cats._"

**Prologue**

Razor's, no surname given, sudden death was indeed quite shocking to most people, not least to himself. One moment he was chowing on iced donuts and butter cookies, the next his half-mind was stumbling through the mists, bumping into as many things as his large body was accustomed to doing at the Library he frequented. No one was surprised he was so easily killed, but they were shocked about _why_ someone would kill a harmless fat guy with a lack of any real talent for magic, who to top it all off had called himself "Razor". The only possessions he had in life were the neccesities: a television, and lots of ready-made food. The only threat he posed was the number level of negative zero (don't ask). And he was called "Razor".

The current detective investigating the scene, Faust Sarc, noted this down on his notepad: "Cause of death: Fire magic and/or generic pyromania, that somehow managed to hit him directly in the brain. Motive for murder: Unknown, possibly due to a hatred of stupid names." Ah, what a hillarious joke he had made. It was, of course, mean-spiritedness that had kept him from being one of the "big" detectives, but you know what? _Who cares_? The ability to insult fat guys named Razor was a blessing worth not being the Sanctuary's prime detective.

The Cleavers stood nearby, performing the "strong but silent" cliché. They were grouped together and practically stuffed together, doing absolutely nothing. That was the power of the Cleaver's uniform. They did nothing, but they did it blankly. If you could see through their masks, you'd perhaps notice them and say, perhaps, "How's the weather?", "Do you know what the time is?" or even "Hey, you're twitching a bit. You nervous about something?". Their masks took away such feelings, and in the process made them fierce and strong. In the process it made them _nobody_. While in uniform, they weren't people. They were Cleavers. Emotions didn't show, and thus weren't there. Out of sight, out of mind.

Off to the right, in the bushes at the darkness of the night in the morning, Faust heard a noise.

And his name was Razor.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sergeant Igol stood on a stool, in front of the bar. His shoulders were awkwardly placed and his back was bent forward towards the bar. In his hand he held a half-empty bottle of booze. Always half-empty. Story of his life. He felt a feeling courress through his throat. Was that the word? There was something wrong with that word... He burped, and some flem, or possibly just normal old sick (how drunk was he now?), landed with precision on the top of the Ye Olde Arm's tap. Ah well, serves it right for butchering English.

Igol was kicked out of the pub at that point, but he didn't care. He had he half-empty bottle of wine (or was it beer?), and he had a night to waste away. He could waste the whole world away. He took another gulp of the bottle, and, after a long while, discovered that he'd finished the bottle. Sadness dawned upon him, and he ended it then and there, by falling asleep in the alleyway.

The trash bin was a surprisingly comfortable bed.

* * *

Crime had increased considerably in Ireland. Ever since the wax museum Irish Sanctuary was destroyed, Cleavers had been in short abundance and morality was weakened. The only surviving Cleavers of the massacre were the ones who had been busy at the time, about ten, and one who had been sick with a hangover. About six had been recruited since then.

Any other day Moral Kosher would have been sacked, probably even if it was a genuine cold. But, when resources are limited, you don't discard them, no matter how useless they were. Cleavers as a profession were also in decline. There was a time when 50 Cleavers would be considered a _small_ amount. These days, they had less than half than that. It was only expectable, what with Cleavers constantly dying. Whenever anything happened, at least _one_ Cleaver would be killed. Or horribly experimented on. Or horribly experimented on and _then_ killed.

Looking back at the past few years, a few instances stuck out, mostly to do with that detestable Pleasant character. Firstly, there was that whole White Cleaver mess that still hasn't been properly sorted out. Then there was that instance with the Grotesquery. And we can't forget about that time where, after fighting a bunch of Hollow Men, the _Faceless Ones_ broke through into the world…

And let's not get started on the_ pay_…

* * *

The two gangs stared opposite to each other. Gang war was common in this town, not because it was particularly filled with gangs, in fact there were only the two, it was just the two just _really_ liked fighting. _Really_. Sometimes with swords. Sometimes with magic. Whatever floated their boat at the time. This time, they were using magic _and guns_.

Two of the West gang members ran with machine guns and snuck up behind the others and attempted to go gangster-crazy on the East side. Bullets burst through one of the East's chest, and they fell to the floor, rather not surprisingly, dead. The others were quicker, activating symbols on their bodies that stopped the bullets from simply tearing through their skins.

One of the Easts rose into the air, waves in the air flying generically, with their eyes turning into pure black orbs. Fire shot one of the Wests in the shoulder, who promptly exploded all over the place.

A West quickly pulled out a handgun, and shot directly at the East's orb eyes, which were rather conveniently somehow unaffected by the symbol magic. The East's eyes turned red, and then topped it off by imploding.

One of the Easts followed this turn of events by running away.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Avarice Waspleg flickered through the money he was holding. He didn't know exactly why he was flickering through the money, after all, it flickered way too fast to actually _count_ it, but he was flickering it nonetheless. Money, money, _money_, in a rich man's world…_

_He turned and loaded the next shipment onto the back of the train. There was once a point where he would have been nervous. He had since discovered that railroad trains were nowhere near as well as guarded as he'd suspected they would. If this was an airport, he'd probably be fiddlesticked right now. But it wasn't and he wasn't, and he was _very_ successful. He didn't really understand the popularity himself, but then again, a dealer never uses his own trade._

_He stepped back, and the train moved forward. It steadily sped up, going faster and _faster_, until the incriminating evidence was far away from its loading point and was exactly at its destination. Soon, it would be carried, and then sold, and then it would reach its _final_ destination, where it would be burned and then you-know-whatted._

_Avarice smiled to himself, and contemplated on bathing in his money in a sign of richness._

_He didn't do it, it was a terrible idea._


End file.
